OEiE 


rywy 


I 


OV  THR 

University  of  California 

Received  JAiM  1895  ,  iSg     . 

^Accessions  No.  5T^/4^        Chus  No,  J?^^ 


•(|o/)oflonon.Q«0»'ll*'0"!l«>Q»fl''y 


Vc>-— ^•'i 


i'.   ■•*>    'v       ^'i-^'^     i> 


\-w 


X 


(yti-L-c^C. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/collegeversesOOberkrich 


COLLEGE  VERSES, 


COMPILED   BY  THE 


r 


BERKELEYAN  STOCK  COMPANY. 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 

THE   CALIFORNIA   PUBLISHING   COMPANY. 

1882. 


Copyright,  1882, 
By  The  Berkeleyan  Stock  Company. 


BACON.  &   COMPANY,  PRINTERS. 


f> 


PREFACE. 


The  accompanying  collection  has  been  made, 
primarily,  to  save  from  the  oblivion  of  files  of  college 
journals  the  best  of  our  undergraduate  poetry;  and 
secondarily,  to  place  before  the  public  a  testimony  to 
the  grade  of  our  literary  work.  These  poems  were 
for  the  most  part  collected  from  the  several  college 
papers;  a  few*were  printed  in  the  "CaUfornian,"  and 
one  in  "Scribner's."  None  date  farther  back  than 
1872,  and  the  great  bulk  come  within  the  period — less 
than  nine  years — since  the  entrance  of  the  class  of  '78. 
We  believe  that  the  collection  here  made  will  com- 
pare favorably  with  any  made  during  an  equal  number 
of  consecutive  years  at  any  college.  When  we  add 
that  the  total  number  of  students  in  college  during 
this  period  has  not  exceeded  twelve  hundred  (some 


iv  Preface, 

twenty  per  cent,  being  ladies),  and  that  by  very  slightly 
lowering  the  standard  of  selection  the  number  of 
poems  might  have  been  increased  by  about  one  hun- 
dred, a  truer  idea  will  be  given  of  the  literary  activity 
there  has  been  among  us. 

The  selection  among  poems  prior  to  the  entrance 
of  '83  has  been  made  by  a  member  of  the  senior  class; 
and  among  poems  of  later  date  by  several  persons  of 
authority  in  and  out  of  the  college,  who  have  also  re- 
vised and  approved  the  whole  selection.  A  little 
effort,  but  only  a  little,  has  been  made  to  distribute 
representation  among  classes  and  individuals.  Trans- 
lations have  been  discriminated  against  almost  to  ex- 
clusion. It  should  be  explained  that  some  of  these 
poems  have  appeared  in  print  after  the  graduation  of 
the  author,  but  were  written  before  graduation. 

University  of  California,  Berkeley, 
November,  1882. 


y>^   0?  THK     ^. 

[UKI7BRSIT' 


CONTENTS, 


ERRATA. 
For  Marcia  S.  Day,  pp.  vi,  vii,  69,  82,  read  Martha  S.  Day. 
For  Chas.  H.  Shinn,  '^T,  p.  24,  r^«^  Chas.  H.  Shinn,  '74. 


Milton Chas.  S.  Greene.  14 

George  Eliot     ....      Edmund  C.  Sanford.  15 

Through  Rose  of  Dawn      .        .  Seddie  E.  Anderson.  16 

O  Patient,  Noble  Heart         .        .      Alice  E.  Pratt.  17 

A  Lost  Guide         .         .         .          Edmund  C.  Sanford.  18 

No  Mystery Benj.  P.  Wall.  19 

A  Dream          .         .         .         Miliccnt  Washburn  Shinn.  20 

Nirvana Chas.  S.  Greene.  21 

The  Two  Reflections  .        .         .          Alice  E.  Pratt.  22 

"Merope  Mortali  Nupsit"       .     Edmund  C.  Sanfo7-d.  23 

Sonnet Charles  H,  Shinn.  24 

November "(9."  25 

Sonnet F.  L.  Foster.  26 


iv  Preface. 

twenty  per  cent,  being  ladies),  and  that  by  very  slightly 
lowering  the  standard  of  selection  the  number  of 
poems  might  have  been  increased  by  about  one  hun- 
dred, a  truer  idea  will  be  given  of  the  literary  activity 
there  has  been  among  us. 

The  selection  amnno-  nnpmc  r\y\r\y  f/^  fi^^  o,-*^ 


representation  among  classes  and  individuals.  Trans- 
lations have  been  discriminated  against  almost  to  ex- 
clusion. It  should  be  explained  that  some  of  these 
poems  have  appeared  in  print  after  the  graduation  of 
the  author,  but  were  written  before  graduation. 

University  of  California,  Berkeley, 
November,  1882. 


L^^^ 


3: 

a?  THB 


(UHIVEHSITTl 


CONTENTS. 


You  Say  that  in  Those  Distant  Lands, 

Mary  R.  Steams.  9 

SONNETS. 

Philhellene       ....          Herman  Dwijielle.  13 

Milton Chas.  S.  Greene.  14 

George  Ei!iot     ....      Edmund  C.  Sanford.  15 

Through  Rose  of  Dawn      .        .  Seddie  E.  Andersoft.  16 

O  Patient,  Noble  Heart         .        .      Alice  E.  Pratt.  17 

A  Lost  Guide         .         .         .          Edmund  C.  Sanford.  18 

No  Mystery Be77j.  P.  Wall.  19 

A  Dream           .         .         .         Miliccnt  Washburn  Shinn.  20 

Nirvana Chas.  S.  Greene.  21 

The  Two  Reflections  .        .        .          Alice  E.  Pratt.  22 

"Merope  Mortali  Nupsit"       .     Edmund  C.  Sanford.  23 

Sonnet Charles  H,  Shinn.  24 

November "6>."  25 

Sonnet F.  L.  Foster.  26 


vi  Contents, 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Hope Annie  H.  Shinn.  29 

The  Fatherland    .        .        .          Seddie  E.  A^tderson.  31 

To  Scientists      .         .'       .         .         .         John  Taylor.  34 

Fear  and  Faith     .         .         ...     Rhoda  L.  Tucker.  35 

The  New  and  the  Old    .         .         Charles  H.  Shinn.  40 

Sunset  after  the  Rain        .          Seddie  E.  Anderson.  42 

Mountain  Rest Lucy  Mooar.  45 

Ceinan,  the  Daughter  of  Ceinwawr    Benj.  P.  WalL  .46 

The  Real  and  the  Ideal         .          Mary  R.  Stearns.  50 

The  Royal  Wine    ....          Alice  E.  Pratt.  52 

A  Lament A.  P.  Niks.  54 

ICHABOD    ....         Miliccnt  Washburn  Shinii.  55 

The  Patrician's  Daughter   .        .        Clara  Bartling.  57 

Renaissance         .         .      •  .         .        •.          Jane  Barry.  62 

Beside  the  Camp-Fire    .       .         .         .     J.  C.  Shinn.  64 

Berkeley  Fog     ....      Seddie  E.  Andci^son.  67 
"I  WILL  LIFT  up  Mine  Eyes  unto  the  Hills," 

Marcia  S.  Day.  69 

The  Master Annie  H.  Shinn.  70 

IN   LYRIC   MOOD. 

At  Sunset Jane  Barry.  75 

Summer  Night        .         .         Milicent  Washburn  Shinn.  76 

Joaquin  Miller Roscoe  Havens,  'jy 


Contents. 


Vll 


Despondency Musidore  Rowntree.     78 

Change        ^ ^^  Gath"    80 

Light  and  Shade  ....         Marcia  S,  Day.     82 

Night D.  S.  Richardson.     83 

Wind  and  Wave     .         .         .  Scddie  E.  Anderso7i.     84 

Die  Sternlein     .         .         .    Miliccnt  Washhur7i  Shinn.     85 

Gratitude       .        . 86 

After  Sunset    .         .         .         .        Musidore  Rowntree.     Sy 

Proven Ltdu  Medbery.     89 

Dreams  and  Reality         .        .        .  F.  W.  Henshaw.     91 
The  Blue-Bell       ....  Clara  Bartling.     93 

A  Cycle       ....     Milicent  Washbtirn  Shinn.     94  _ 

Enter  June F.  IV.  He^ishaw.     96 

Sea-Bird Ja7ic  Barry. .    98 

Off  Shore*     .....  Musidore  Rozvntree.  100 
•  MoRO  Rock  .       ' .         .         .  Charles  H.  Shinn.   105 

The  Peasant  Children        .        .  C-la?^a  Baj-tling.  106 

The  Dark  Hour         .         .         .  Herman  Dwinelle.   108 

The  Wurmlingen  Chapel   .         .         .       Jane  Barry,  no 
A  Flower  in  a  Letter    .     Miliceitt  Washburn  Shi7in.  H2 


UilVBESIT' 
COLLEGE    VERSES. 


YOU    SAY    THAT    IN    THOSE    DISTANT 
LANDS. 

You  say  that  in  those  distant  lands 
Where  every  height  is  "old  in  story," 

Crowned  with  some  legend  wild  and  quaint 
Of  lover's  grief  or  conqueror's  glory, 

No  fairer  scene  has  charmed  your  gaze, 
In  all  your  w^anderings  to  and  fro, 

Than  that  which  meets  your  eyes  to-day, 
Here  where  our  western  breezes  blow: 

Not  that  famed  bay  whose  waves  reflect 

The  azure  of  Italian  skies 
Breaks  brighter  on  the  traveler's  view 

Than  that  which  now  before  us  lies: 

No  fairer  hills  at  morning  gleam 
Through  floating  veils  of  sunlit  mist 


TO         You  Say  that  in  Those  Distant  Lands. 

Or  rise  against  the  evening  sky — 
Walls  of  transparent  amethyst. 

But  yet  the  scene,  you  say,  is  cold: 
No  ruined  wall  or  moldering  tower 

Speaks  to  the  present  of  the  past, 

And  tells  of  vanished  light  or  power  ; 

No  poet,  artist,  hero,  sage, 

Has  lived  or  taught  these  hills  among; 
No  canvas  holds  their  changing  tints; 

No  matchless  verse  their  charms  has  sung. 

But  know  that  of  the  wondrous  past, 

Which,  from  the  old  world's  ruined  towers 

Breathes  tidings  of  such  import  deep. 
The  richest,  truest  part  is  ours. 

And  while  the  fires  of  memory  glow 

On  every  dim,  historic  slope. 
Be  kindled  on  our  western  hills 

The  steadfast  beacon-lights  of  hope ! 

Mary  R,  Stearns^  '/d 


SONNETS. 


SON  NETS, 


PHILHELLENE. 

When  those  hard-handed  Argonauts  of  old, 
In  their  well-builded  galley,  hero-manned. 
Floated  on  spring  floods  from  the  hill-crowned  land 

To  river's  mouth  and  launched  into  the  cold 

Damp  airs  of  ocean ;  silent  all  did  hold 

Their  oars,  looking  to  seaward;  and  did  stand 
Lifting  their  glad  brown  faces  to  be  fanned 

By  the  sea  wind.     Then  their  sails  fold  by  fold 

They  loosed,  and  lay  and  breathed  the  salty  breeze. 
So  when  down  song's  tumultuous  flood  I  sped. 
By  fairy  realms,  and  holds  of  sovereign  might. 

And  hoisted  sail  in  old  King  Homer's  seas, 
I  felt  the  foam-chilled  breeze  about  my  head: 
I  breathed  and  breathe  it  still  with  deep  delight. 
Herman  Dwinelle^  ^y8. 


14  Miltofu 


MILTON. 

Upon  my  book-case  shelf  I  see  with  shame 
Thy  poems  stand,  their  pages  long  unread, 
And  think  how  oft  my  midnight  lamp  has  shed 

Its  light  on  work  of  far  less  worthy  claim. 

For  thou  art  like  an  eagle — on  the  same 
Exalted  air  thy  mighty  wings  are  spread, 
And  thou  dost  turn  upon  the  fountain-head 

Of  day  thy  steady  gaze.     My  grosser  frame 

With  effort  rises  to  that  lofty  air, 

The  sun  is  blinding  to  my  weaker  sight, 

And  soon  I  sink  to  lewer  regions,  where 
I  find  a  denser  air,  a  softer  light : 

A  thousand  simple  pleasures  charm  me  there. 
And  common  griefs  my  sympathy  invite. 

Chas.  S.  Greene,  ^80. 


George  Eliot.  15 


\  GEORGE   ELIOT. 

We  thought  the  sweep  of  poppies  on  the  hills, 
The  blackbird's  whistle  and  the  lark's  rich  notes, 
The  waves  that  whiten  in  the  tall  wild  oats. 

The  wind  that  in  the  laurels  wakes  and  stills 

A  voice  of  music,  and  the  ceaseless  trills 

Of  mountain  streams — all  these  we  thought  were 

coats 
And  vestments  of  the  real ; — that  yet  some  motes 

We  might  discover  of  the  truth  that  fills 

All  space.     Vain  hope !     For  we  can  never  know 
The  truth :  through  a  mysterious  world  we  go. 

Yet  we  take  courage  when  thou  sayest,  "Yes, 
'Tis  dark,  but  there  is  light  for  him  that  tries 
To  live  in  other's  good;  that  crucifies 

Himself  to  help  men  on  toward  perfectness." 

Edmund  C.  Sanford,  ^8j. 


1 6  Through  Rose  of  Dawn. 


THROUGH   ROSE   OF   DAWN. 

Through  rose  of  dawn,  and  sunset's  radiant  dyes, 
Through  golden  harvest,  dewy  joy  of  spring. 
Through  all  the  beautiful  that  poets  sing. 

She  walked  with  heavy  feet  and  down-cast  eyes : 

To  Nature's  smiles  she  rendered  naught  but  sighs. 
While  age  made  drearier  yet  each  earthly  thing, 
Till  Death  bent  o'er  her  with  his  shadowy  wing, 

And  in  his  cold  arms  bore  her  to  the  skies. 

And  thus  she  left  the  world ;  but  looking  back 

She  asked,  as  through  the  stars  they  took  their  way, 

"  What  star,  O  angel,  with  the  silver  track 
Shines  yonder,  loveliest  of  the  whole  array?" 

"  What !  know  you  not  the  place  you  thought  so  dread  ? 

That  shining  planet  is  the  Earth!"  Death  said, 

Seddie  E.  Anderson^  'y8. 


O  Patient,  Noble  Heart.  17 

\ 
\ 


O   PATIENT,    NOBLE   HEART. 

O  PATIENT,  noble  heart  that  long  hast  sought 
To  lead  the  erring  world  to  see  the  right; 
To  point  some  waiting  soul  to  where  the  light 
Breaks  through  the  darkness — sorrowful  and  fraught 
With  bitter  care  and  never-ending  pain 

Must  be  the  life  that  seeks  to  bless  mankind ; 
For  men  will  scoff  and  turn  away,  or,  bHnd, 
Unheeding  pass  the  outstretched  hand  that  fain 
Would  clasp  their  own  and  help  them  on  their  way. 
Yet,  dear  heart,  faint  not :  for,  amid  the  throng 
Of  eager  souls,  or  sad,  that  hastes  along, 
A  few,  if  only  for  a  moment,  stay, 
Touch  the  extended  hand,  and  evermore 
Possess  a  love  and  peace  they  lacked  before. 

Alice  E.  Pratt,  '81, 


1 8  A  Lost  Guide. 


A   LOST   GUIDE. 


Yea,  fool!     Didst  ever  fill  thy  days  with  strife 
For  something  better  than  thy  meat  and  drink? 
Then  art  thou  more  a  fool  than  I  did  think : 

No  more  thy  prophet  speaks  the  words  of  life ! 

Forget  the  aspirations  that  were  rife 

Within  thy  foolish  heart;  cower  and  shrink 
To  littleness;  go  worship  money's  chink: 

No  more  thy  prophet  speaks  the  words  of  life ! 
Yet  hast  thou  heard  that  dear  voice  speak  to  theei 
The  fool  thou  wast,  again  thou  canst  not  be. 

But  half  revived  must  feel  the  living  death 

Of  what  thou  mightst  have  been  pierce  like  a  knife, 

Must  seek  a  good  that  ever  vanisheth. 

No  more  thy  prophet  speaks  the  words  of  life ! 
Edmund  C.  Sa?tford,  ^8j. 


No  Mystery.  19 


NO   MYSTERY. 

TO   . 

Ait  yes !  my  eyes  for  thee  grow  sparkling  bright 
As  sudden  sunshine  on  a  waste  of  sea ; 
Thy  voice,  though  softly  sweet  it  is,  to  me 

Makes  deeper  music  than  the  waves  at  night ; 

And  thy  sweet  smile  is  fairer  to  my  sight 
Than  twilight's  wondrous  tones  of  violet. 

But  mystic  meaning  never  yet  was  set 
In  runes  like  these.     The  old  gods  pass  away. 
The  new  are  men,  and  thought  will  win  the  day. 
And  I  may  never  to  thy  standard  get, 
But  still  thou  art,  I  am,  and  love  thee  yet. 

Benj.  P,   Wall,  'yd. 


20  A  JDream, 


A   DREAM. 


If  I  shall  find  myself,  long  after  death, 

In  some  vast  darkness  walking  all  alone, 
And  strain  my  every  sense  and  hold  my  breath, 

Because  each  step  before  me  is  unknown ; 
If,  all  around,  the  darkness  blank  and  still 

Hangs  heavily  and  thick  with  shapeless  dread, 
And  I  go  ever  on  without  my  w^ill, 

Yet  dare  not  stop  nor  even  turn  my  head, 
But  tremble,  sick  with  terror,  lest  I  may 

At  any  instant  cower  to  feel  the  clutch 
Of  something  that  has  followed  all  the  way— 

If  then  thy  sudden  hand  my  shoulder  touch, 
I  shall  not  shudder.     Longed-for  touch  and  dear, 
How  should  I  fail  to  know  thee  even  here? 

Milice?it  IVashbitrn  Shtnn,  '/p. 


Nirvana,  21 


NIRVANA. 


I  STAND  before  thy  giant  form,  Ranier, 

That  rises  wrapped  in  robe  of  dazzling  snow, 
And  wonder  what  has  made  thee  tower  so, 

Calm,  cold,  and  changeless  in  the  sunlight  clear. 

The  answer  comes:  Volcanic  rocks  have  here 
For  ages  burned,  upcast  with  fiercest  glow 
In  fiery  torrents  from  the  hell  below. 

Thus  did  this  mighty  pyramid  uprear 

Its  matchless  form,  till  now  it  stands  alone, 
Above  the  storms  that  vex  the  lower  skies, 

While  radiant  whiteness  clothes  the  rugged  stone. 
O  soul,  cast  out  the  hell  that  in  thee  lies 

Of  passions  and  desires  that  make  thee  moan. 
And,  clad  in  white,  thou  too  shalt  grandly  rise. 
Chas.  S.  Greene^  '80, 


The  Tivo  Reflections. 


THE  TWO   REFLECTIONS. 

One  day  I  paused  before  the  college  door 
To  see  the  fairy  landscape  mirrored  there. 
Instead  of  floor  and  wall  and  winding  stair 

The  broad,  fresh  slopes  of  green  lay  spread  before 

My  eyes;  and  far  off  shone  the  azure  bay, 
Beyond  which  Tamalpais  arose  on  high, 
And  gray  between  the  blue  of  sea  and  sky, 

The  distant  Farallones  like  shadows  lay. 

But  soft  blue  skies  and  sunny  sweep  of  green 
Grew  dim,  then  faded  quite,  for  in  their  place 
Behold !  the  image  of  my  form  and  face, 

That,  rising  there,  had  blurred  the  whole  sweet  scene. 
Ah  me !  what  beauty  we  might  ever  know 
If  self,  intruding,  did  not  blind  us  so ! 

Alice  E,  Pratt,  '8i. 


'Merope  Mortali  NupsW  23 


"MEROPE   MORTALI    NUPSIT." 

With  what  a  loving  tenderness  the  night 
Infolds  the  tired  world.     The  fitful  breeze 
Goes  singing  lullabies  among  the  trees, 

And  all  the  sky  is  netted  with  the  light 

Of  golden  stars.     Amid  the  clusters  bright 
I  see  my  stately  sister  Pleiades: 
They  float  forever  bathed  in  heavenly  ease, 

Unmoved  by  love,  or  fear,  or  death,  or  sight 

Of  suffering  men  that  turn  their  eager  eyes 
Toward  heights  still  unattainable — of  wrong 

Triumphant  over  right,  or  sacred  lies. 

And  yet  I  pity  all  the  gods  above : 

For  who  in  all  that  selfish,  soulless  throng 

Can  know  the  mystery  of  life  and  love  ? 

Edmund  C.  Sa^iford^  ^8j. 


24  Sonnet. 


SONNET. 


The  gray  clouds  weighted  all  the  weary  air, 

And  slowly  fell  the  faltering  drops  of  rain, 

Till  the  low  crying  of  a  secret  pain 
Grew  wilder  than  my  lonely  heart  could  bear; 
And  with  weird  fancies  driven  everywhere, 

I  wandered  on  a  lone  and  dreary  plain, 

Where  every  sight  was  but  a  closer  chain, 
And  the  dead  hopes  of  buried  time  seemed  there. 
Lo  !  a  clear  voice  outsprung,  whose  ripples  made 

All  visible  dumb  things  completely  free ! 
Music,  as  when  the  Grecian  Master  played 

To  the  stilled  pulses  of  a  reverent  sea ! — 
For  upward,  through  the  thorny  drift  there  strayed 

A  glad  lark's  crystal,  sky-born  melody. 

Charlea  H.  Shin?i,  '//. 


November,  25 


NOVEMBER. 

It  chanced  me  once  that  many  weary  weeks 
I  walked  to  daily  work  across  a  plain 
Far-stretching,  barren  since  the  April  rain ; 

And  now,  in  gravelly  beds  of  vanished  creeks, 

November  walked  dry-shod.  On  every  side 
Round  the  horizon  hung  a  murky  cloud — 
No  hills,  no  waters;  and  above  that  shroud 

A  wan  sky  rested,  shadowless  and  wide. 

Until  one  night  came  down  the  earliest  rain ; 
And  in  the  morning,  l6 !  in  fair  array. 
Blue  ranges,  crowned  with  snowy  summits,  lay 

All  round  about  the  fair,  transfigured  plain. 
Oh,  would  that  such  a  rain  might  melt  away 

In  tears  the  cloud  that  chokes  my  heart  with  pain  ! 
Milicent  Washburn  Shinn^  'yg. 


26  Sonnet. 


SONNET. 


Lone  Spirit  of  the  Autumn !  I  have  viewed 

Thy  strange  face  where  the  weary  waters  gleam 

And  marked  thy  image  in  the  silent  stream 
That  wanders  sadly  in  its  solitude. 
And  oft  within  the  dreary  stretch  of  wood, 

Where  each  bare  limb  glows  'neath  the  sun's  bright 
beam, 

Unseen,  I've  heard  thee  chant  thy  awful  theme 
Of  death;  then,  silent,  o'er  the  tree-tops  brood. 
O'er  glistening  stubble  and  through  quiet  vale, 

Where  earth  lies  sadly  dreaming  of  decay, 
Borne  on  the  drooping  winds  thy  dying  wail 

Is  feebly  echoed  by  the  listless  day ; 
Till  fierce  December  o'er  the  months  prevail — 

Then  on  the  sweeping  blast  thy  soul  doth  pass  away. 

F.  L.  Foster,  '76. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


HOPE. 

With  leaden  hearts  we  bowed  and  said 

The  bitter,  last  farewell; 
For  blessed  Hope,  we  wept,  is  dead — 

How  blessed,  who  shall  tell? 

We  laid  her  in  the  hollow  ground. 

And  turned  our  heavy  feet 
From  that  unshaded,  barren  mound. 

Our  desolate  lives  to  meet. 

When  suddenly,  the  pathway  by. 
An  unknown  form  doth  rise: 

Awe-struck  we  gaze  and  trembling  cry, 
"Lo,  Hope's  eternal  eyes!'' 

So  we  beside  the  grave  did  stand 
That  held  her  other  form, 


30  Hope. 

And  felt  again  her  kindly  hand, 
So  brave  and  strong  and  warm. 

And  though  she  outwardly  is  strange 

Hope  walks  beside  us  still, 
And  yet  supports  at  every  change 

The  ever-faltering  will. 

To-day  I  sought  the  place  again, 

But  though  for  many  years 
All  grass  and  flowers  that  grave  has  lain, 

It  moves  me  still  to  tears. 

Annie  II.  Shinn,  '/c?. 


The  Faiherla7id,  31 

THE   FATHERLAND. 

{From  the  Gerjnan  of  Griin.) 

With  canvas  spread,  we  hovered  through 

The  green  wave  of  the  sea; 
A  band  of  happy  people, 

Light-hearted,  careless,  free; 

A  people  that  the  breezes  seem 

Together  to  have  sown, 
To  part  again  upon  the  morn, 

Swift  from  each  other  blown. 

There  was  a  man  from  bonny  France, 
From  the  beautiful  Rhone-strand ; 

Fair  fields  of  gold,  and  vineyards, 
He  called  his  native  land. 

The  far-off  rock-walls  of  the  North, 

Another  one  claimed  these — 
The  Scandinavian  glaciers. 

The  shining  crystal  seas. 

And  stood  the  cradle  of  a  third. 
With  laurels  blossomed  o^er, 

/     >>       OF  TBDB     ^.[^^ 


32  The  Fatherland. 

Where,  beacon-like,  Vesuvius 
Gleams  ever  from  the  shore. 

For  Germany's  fair  mountain-j^eaks, 

Her  oaks  in  forests  wide, 
The  Danube's  dewy  meadows, 

My  heart  with  longing  sighed. 

"  Long  live  the  native  country ! 

Come  all,  with  glass  in  hand! 
Some  may  not  have  a  sweet-heart, 

But  all  a  native  land." 

Then  each  man  drained  his  beaker, 

With  eager,  glowing  face. 
Save  one,  who  stared  in  silence. 

Out  on  the  sea's  broad  space. 

It  was  a  man  from  Venice, 
Who  stood  and  sighed  alone, 

"  My  fatherland,  my  country, 
Thou  art  but  water  and  stone ! 

"Once  shone  the  sun  of  freedom  there; 

Once  lived  the  stone  and  spoke, 
And  there,  like  Memnon's  statue. 

Morn's  ruddy  silence  broke. 


The  Fathei'land.  33 

"Then  rocked  the  glowing  waters, 

With  purple  ringed  the  world, 
And  glorious  shining  rainbows 

To  heaven's  pavilion  hurled. 

"Bright  sunshine  of  my  native  clime, 

Say  wherefore  hast  thou  gone? 
Why  art  thou,  O  my  country. 

But  water  now  and  stone?" 

Then  grew  he  silent,  gazing  down. 

Upon  the  stranger  sea, 
And,  undisturbed,  the  sparkling  glass 

Within  his  hand  held  he. 

Then,  as  for  a  dead-offering, 

He  pours  it  in  the  main; 
Like  shining  tear-drops,  in  the  deep 

Descends  the  golden  rain. 

Seddie  E.  Anderson^  ^y8. 


34  To  Scientists. 


TO   SCIENTISTS. 

For  him  who  in  the  cause  of  science  seeks 
The  cold  gray  cliffs  and  lone  aspiring  peaks, 
Or  dies  amid  the  shades  of  tropic  clime, 
Let  poets  sing,  and  shape  the  measured  rhyme. 

Nor  be  forgot  the  watchful  eye  that  gropes 
From  star  to  star  in  azure  field,  and  opes 
Unbounded  tracts — the  comet's  lonely  home, 
And  where  the  fierce  red  meteors  roam. 

Along  the  pathway  dim  of  trodden  time, 
Behold  him  fall  in  wild  and  icy  clime ; 
A  lofty  light  is  his  amid  each  star 
That  guides  the  stranger  on  to  lands  afar. 

And  not  alone  he  seeks  the  polar  shores 
For  richer  truths:  among  us  here  explores 
Each  varied  realm  of  thought  his  gifted  mind, 
And  leaves  a  wiser,  richer  world  behind. 

For  him  be  woven  the  laurel  wreath;  his  brow 
The  fragrant  leaves  become.     Behold,  e'en  now, 
He  leads  the  nations  on  from  cause  to  cause. 
Unrobes  each  cosmic  sphere  and  grasps  its  laws. 

John  Taylor^  ^6, 


Fear  and  Faith.  35 


FEAR   AND    FAITH. 

Once  at  night-time,  when  the  stars  were  shining, 

Stood  a  poet,  thinking  of  men's  story, 

All  their  mingled  years  of  pain  and  pleasure ; 

All  the  wrongs  their  hands  have  wrought  unwitting; 

All  their  stumbling  feet,  for  lack  of  wisdom; 

All  the  blind  and  tangled  maze  of  footsteps. 

And  he  cried,  "  O  let  me  see  the  future — 
Let  us  not  go  forth  in  utter  darkness; 
Spirit  of  the  world,  O  show  us  plainly 
Where  the  pathway  leads  and  what  the  ending." 

Then  it  seemed  that  to  his  eager  praying 
Suddenly  and  softly  stood  beside  him 
One  of  most  majestic  mien,  and  answered: 
'*  Come !  for  I  will  show  thee  all  the  future." 
Then  he  gravely  took  his  hand  and  led  him 
On  a  pathway  up  a  mystic  mountain. 
Eagerly  he  followed  through  the  midnight, 
Till  they  neared,  at  last,  a  craggy  summit ; 
Dark  and  gray  and  silent  was  the  summit, 
But  behind  it  seemed  to  grow  a  splendor, 


36  Fear  and  Faith. 

As  if  far  below,  beyond  the  ridges, 

Some  unearthly  dawn  were  glimmering  awful. 

Still  they  mounted ;  still  the  awful  glimmer 
Grew,  and  lit  the  hoary  frost  about  them. 
Till  they  almost  trod  the  mountain's  summit. 
Then  the  poet's  heart  stood  still  and  faltered; 
By  his  side  the  silent  spirit  waited. 
And  the  grave  and  pitying  voice  was.  speaking : 
"Canst  thou  bear  it?     Canst  thou  bear  the  vision?" 
Then  his  heart  beat,  echoing  the  question : 
"Can  I  bear  to  see  the  fate  of  others? 
There  is  one  I  know ;  what  if  I  see  him 
Losing  faith  in  God  and  human  nature, 
All  belittled  with  the  cares  of  living? 
And  another ;  what  if  I  should  see  him 
Warped  from  all  his  boyish  truth  and  honor— 
And  another,  shrunken-souled  and  sordid; 
This  one  stricken  down  in  noonday  vigor; 
That  one  living  on,  but  stumbling,  falling, 
Reeling  in  the  mire,  despairing,  cursing — 
Can  I  bear  to  see  these  dreams  of  morning 
■  Shattered  into  ha^^ard  fear  and  evil?  " 


'*Ot)" 


Then  he  put  his  hand,  all  cold  and  trembling, 
In  the  strong  hand  of  the  kindly  spirit. 


Fear  and  Faith.  37 

And  the  strong  hand  led  him  gently  downward 
To  the  fair,  still  plain  beneath  the  starlight. 

Then  he  wished  he  had  not  been  so  craven, 
Turned  too  late  and  cried,  his  heart  accusing, 
*'  Why  should  I  have  feared  that  dawn-lit  vision  ? 
Surely  all  the  glimmering  light  was  lovely; 
Would  that  I  had  dared  and  seen  the  vision. 
Then  I  might  have  told  men  what  I  saw  there — 
Those  fair  years  their  merry  hopes  have  promised; 
Him  I  feared  for  in  my  coward  fancy 
Walking  on  in  ever-growing  graces; 
This  one's  boyish  vigor  ripe  in  manhood; 
That  one  striking  sturdy  blows  for  honor; 
Many  a  knightly  aim  and  deed  heroic. 
Many  a  life  fulfilled  in  joy  and  honor, 
Had  I  only  dared  to  see  the  vision!" 

Was  it  ours — the  doubting  poet's  story? 
Have  we  also  feared  to  face  the  future? 
How  the  time  has  aged  us  of  a  sudden ! 
But  a  while  ago  and  we  were  children, 
Looking  forward  eagerly  and  gayly. 
Glad  of  each  to-day,  but  still  impatient 
For  the  golden  dawn-glow  of  to-morrow. 
Only  yesterday  it  seems  we  had  it — 


38  Fear  and  Faith. 

Who  has  stolen  away  our  eager  childhood? 
What  sad  spirits  roaming  discontented, 
Stole  our  happy  hearts  while  we  were  sleeping; 
Spied  and  snatched  them,  leaving  in  their  places 
These  so  grim  and  sad  with  their  forebodings? 

So  I  saw  once  in  a  lake  reflected 
Heaven's  serenest  face;  but  on  a  sudden 
Fell  a  chilly  gust  of  wind  and  broke  it, 
Ruffled  it  till  it  was  dark  and  leaden  ; 
And  the  birds  that  circled  o'er  its  smiling 
Fled  away  and  feared  its  scowling  forehead. 
So  I  saw  once  in  a  sunny  garden. 
Where  the  bees  were  busy,  and  the  roses 
Made  the  warm  air  rich  with  Orient  spices, 
When  a  sudden  mist  all  in  a  moment 
Swept  with  chill  and  shadowy  wings  across  it ; 
All  the  roses  paled,  their  thin  leaves  shivered, 
And  the  darkened  air  was  salt  and  bitter. 
Little  knew  the  lake  how  soon  the  evening 
Still  and  fair  would  fill  its  heart  with  starlight ; 
Little  knew  the  garden  how  the  morning 
Soon  was  coming  in  its  golden  glory. 

Let  us  woo  again  that  better  courage ! 
'Tis  no  angel  that  has  whispered  doubting, 


Fear  and  Faith,  39 

Whispered  cold  distrust  and  grim  suspicion 

'Tis  the  tempting  of  our  craven  weakness, 

And  his  voice  of  whom  our  Shakspere  warned  us : 

"He  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits." 

It  is  ours  to  make  that  unknown  future, 

Ours  to  make  it  brighter  and  more  splendid 

Than  the  fairest  dream  of  all  the  dreamers ; 

Ours  to  see  the  vision  and  fulfill  it, 

Fairer  than  we  dream  of,  fairer  even 

Than  the  shining  eyes  of  hope  can  see  it. 

Rhoda  L.  Tucker^  '/p. 


40  The  New  and  the  Old. 


THE   NEW   AND   THE   OLD.       ^ 

Lo !     The  old  faiths  are  almost  dead, 
And  the  old  streams  are  running  dry ; 

They  wore  their  banks  too  sharp  and  deep, 
And  widened  not — so  let  them  die ! 

Yea,  the  old  guiding  stars  swing  slow 
But  they  move  surely,  and  the  new 

Shoulders  them  forth,  to  lift  his  shield, 
Pearl-paUid,  in  the  waiting  blue. 

And  the  broad  years  bring  strength  and  sight ; 

For  the  dead  past  we  have  no  blame, 
We  add  no  curse  to  carven  stones. 

We  give  the  Old  all  it  may  claim. 

But  for  the  New ! — Vast  empires  stretch 
Their  white  shores  shipless ;  never  keel 

Troubles  the  rest  of  their  still  seas, 
Their  forests  hear  no  stroke  of  steel. 

Yet  the  woods  wait  in  yearnings  low, 
With  a  sweet  dream  of  temples  hewn 


The  New  a?td  the  Old.  41 

From  their  own  hearts  of  faith,  and  reared 
The  keen  hill's  age-waiting  throne ! 

There  the  sun  flames  on  crystal  peaks 

That  smite  the  blue  dome  almost  through, 

There  the  sweet  vales  of  summer  rest 
And  the  wide  land  is  lone  and  new : 

Here  the  worn,  grainless  fields  lament, 
"No  more  brown  toilers  come  to  reap.'' 

Our  tall  ships  pant  and  strain;  we  sail 

With  glad  hearts  towards  the  soundless  deep: 

Till  our  pale  watchers  cry,  "  Land,  ho  '  " 

The  low  seas  blossom  into  white; 
And  a  great  land,  with  awe-lit  crags. 

And  palm-trees  under,  lifts  in  sight ! 

The  Old  fades  in  a  wordless  past 

By  the  gray  sea's  oblivion  bound; 
But  the  New,  thrilled  with  promise,  stands 

In  the  near  silence,  halo-crowned ! 

Charles  H,  Shtnn,  '7^. 


42  Sunset  after  the  Ram. 


SUNSET  AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

TKe  rain  is  over,  and  in  the  west 

The  rose  melts  into  the  blue ; 
A  bird  just  now  from  her  little  nest 

With  a  rippling  warble  flew, 
And,  poising  a  moment  on  yonder  spray, 

Shook  down  with  the  motion  light 
Drops  with  a  diamond  and  opal  play 

That  sparkling  passed  from  sight 

At  the  roots  of  the  oak  the  chick-weed  grows, 

Lifting  its  small,  round  face, 
With  a  sturdy  pride  and  a  look  that  shows 

Its  home  is  a  pleasant  place. 
Fairy  ferns  of  delicate  green 

From  their  mossy  beds  look  up, 
And  the  brown  wake-robin  peeps  out  between 

With  silver  wine  in  its  cup. 

Wild  rose  blossoms  perfume  the  air, 

Sorrow  has  made  them  sweet. 
But  the  brooklet  murmurs  rebellious  where 

So  late  it  was  wont  to  greet 


Sunset  after  the  Rain.  43 

Drooping  grass  and  bending  flowers, 

With  a  sweep  of  silvery  song, 
With  a  tinkling  babble  for  hours  and  hours, 

That  was  innocent  of  wrong. 

Now  with  its  blue,  the  emblem  of  truth, 

Turned  to  a  treacherous  gray, 
It  murmurs  but  discords  because,  forsooth. 

Trouble  has  come  its  way. 
A  breeze  that  is  scarcely  more  than  a  breath 

Is  ruffling  the  distant  bay. 
Earth  and  heaven  seem  waiting  the  death 

Of  the  beautiful,  willful  day. 

Stormy  and  wayward,  but  dying  now. 

Passion  all  laid  aside, 
Like  the  quiet  ending  of  some  wild  song, 

Like  the  ebbing  of  the  tide. 
See  how  she  slips  from  our  sight  away ! 

She  has  almost  gone  from  gaze. 
Hush!  the  rosy  mantle  has  faded  to  gray; 

She  has  reached  the  land  of  days. 

A  ship,  white-pinioned,  sails  into  the  west; 

Like  the  ghost  of  the  day  it  seems. 
And  a  mournful  silence  falls  on  the  rest. 

Till  the  north  wind  breaks  its  dreams. 


44  Sunset  after  the  Rain. 

And  black  clouds  cover  the  sea  like  palls, 

Shadows  creep  over  the  vale, 
And  through  the  earth,  as  the  darkness  falls, 

The  breezes  a  requiem  wail. 

Seddie  E.  Anderson^  '/<?. 


Mountain  Rest,  45 


MOUNTAIN   REST. 

'Tis  said 
The  lofty  mountain  crest  across  the  bay, 
To  which  we  give  the  name  of  Tamalpais, 
Reveals  within  its  long  and  gentle  line 
A  giant  form,  at  rest  against  the  sky. 
Pleasant  'twould  be  against  the  sky  to  rest ; 
'Tis  there,  we  say,  God  hath  his  home,  in  whom 
Rest  doth  forever  dwell,  and  there  abide 
Those  mountain  souls  whose  peace  is  found  in  Him; 
Around  their  heads  at  times  the  winds  may  blow, 
And  clouds  may  darkly  move,  but  strong  they  lean 
Against  the  sky  in  sunshine  or  in  storm. 
And  find  repose.     Then  say  not  it  were  sweet, 
O  weary  soul,  but  rest  thou  too,  and  know 
How  peaceful  life  may  be,  calm  and  serene, 
A  mountain's  rest  against  a  quiet  sky. 

Lucy  Mooar^  '80. 


46  Ceinan,  the  Daughter  of  Ceinwawr. 


CEINAN,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  CEINWAWR. 

Brave  Ceinwawr  built  himself  a  castle  strong 
Amid  the  hills,  above  a  valley  deep ; 

And  there  the  sun  the  soonest  touched  the  earth, 
And  latest  left  it  for  his  night  of  sleep. 

And  here  his  daughter  Ceinan  grew  apace, 
A  maid  as  fair  as  e'er  of  mortal  birth, 

And  Lily  of  the  Angels  she  was  called ; 

Her  beauty's  fame  reached  over  all  the  earth. 

Each  made  a  concept  of  her  beauty  fair. 
And  none  had  seen  her  save  in  his  own  thought; 
And  some  would  have  her  white  as  driven  snow, 
And  some  as  like  the  foam-crest  on  the  wave, 
And  some  like  glistening  lime  on  whitened  wall 
By  roses  curtained,  blending  red  and  white. 
And  some  would  have  her  lips  bright  red  as  dawn 
Soft  melting  in  the  summer  morning  light. 
Her  hair  to  one  was  like  the  sunbeams  bright, 
And  to  another  like  the  ripened  grain, 
And  to  a  third  it  seemed  of  spun-out  gold. 
And  this  one  said  her  blue  eyes  brighter  were 


\     Ceinan,  the  Daughter  of  Ceinwawr.  47 

Than  briglitest  star  when  clear  the  north  wind  blows; 

Another  that  they  seemed  like  sapphire  stones.. 

When  sunlight  sparkles  joyously  on  them. 

Then  when  they  came  to  where  fair  Ceinan  dwelt, 

Each  one  must  think  her  wanting  in  that  part 

In  which  he  thought  she  formerly  excelled, 

And  so,  to  suit  the  varied  tastes  of  each, 

They  dusted  white  her  face  to  make  her  seem 

More  fair;  they  painted  red  her  cheeks,  so  that 

The  ruddy  glow  might  catch  the  eye;  and  with 

Vermilion  did  they  dye  her  lips,  and  black 

They  penciled  lines  above  her  eyes.     They  made 

Her  dresses  short — she  was  too  tall;  they  put 

High  coils  upon  her  head — she  was  too  short. 

So  after  all,  when  each  had  wrought  his  will, 

Twas  only  ugliness  that  met  the  sight; 

And  no  one  sought  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 

And  if,  perchance — he  quickly  closed  his  eyes. 

Now  lonely  passed  the  time  to  Ceinan  pure, 
And  deeply  pondered  she  the  reason  why 
She  who  had  always  happy  been  was  now 
Deserted  by  the  world  and  left  alone. 
She  picked  a  glass  from  off  the  window  ledge, 
She  looked  therein  and  said,  "  This  is  not  I ; 
There  is  some  charm  about  the  thing;  I  will 
Me  to  the  spring  and  it  will  tell  me  true." 


48  Ceinaii^  the  Daughter  of  Ceinwawr. 

And  on  its  surface  calm,  lone  Ceinan  gazed, 
And  there  she  saw  the  ugly  thing  she  was. 
And  she  was  nigh  to  wishing  she  were  dead — 
When  she  remembered  her  old  nurse's  tale: 
That  she  who  washed  herself  within  the  spring 
When  shadows  fell  to  neither  west  nor  east 
Would  have  her  wrongs  and  fears  removed  from  her. 
And  kneeling  down  upon  the  edge  of  green 
That  circled  in  the  waters  clear,  she  dipped 
Her  hands  into  the  limpid  stillness  deep ; 
And  like  some  sea-shell  beautifully  rare, 
Or  like  a  little  cloud  all  rosy  red 
When  in  the  ether  tremblingly  it  hangs, 
They  seemed  there.     And  quickly  now  she  dashed 
With  these  fair  hands  the  water  o'er  her  face ; 
She  took  the  coils  from  off  her  head,  and  let 
Her  own  bright  hair  hang  down  its  waving  length. 
The  waters  danced  awhile,  and  when  at  rest 
And  bright  the  surface  was  again,  once  more 
She  looked  into  the  spring  and  there  she  saw 
Her  wonted  beauty  now  come  back  again. 

And  now  she  wakls  along  the  banquet  hall, 
And  with  a  willowy  grace  and  kindly  smile 
She  meets  them  all,  and  all  the  people  say, 
"Our  Lily  of  the  Angels  has  returned." 


Ceinan,    the  Daughter  of  Ceinwawr.  49 

And  even  those  who  hid  her  beauty  fair 
Beneath  their  glaring  paint  and  powders  white 
Are  loud  in  praises  of  her  loveliness. 
But  as  to  all  the  folly  they  have  done, 
Not  one  acknowledges  that  he  is  wrong 
Or  will  confess  his  fault.     It  is  the  wise 
Alone  who  seek  to  make  amends  for  ill 

And  so  it  is  with  truth.     All  love  it  well, 

And  would  respect  it  but  that  each  must  make 

To  mar  it  as  his  inclination  tells. 

And  then  it  soon  takes  on  an  evil  shape^ 

A  lie  it  is  and  hateful  to  the  sight. 

But  truth  is  ever  anxious  for  the  sun; 

It  will,  despite  of  every  cloak  thrown  'round, 

Cast  off  the  thing,  and  at  the  end  stand  forth 

In  all  its  old-time  loveliness  to  view. 

And  it  may  well  be  said  of  men  who  act 

In  ways,  like  these,  that  they  would  be  the  last 

That  would  confess  that  theirs  was  any  guilt. 

Or  that  in  all  their  actions  error  was. 

Benj,  P.   Wall,  '76. 


50  The  Real  and  the  Ideal. 


THE   REAL   AND    THE    IDEAL. 

They  told  me  she  was  beautiful; 

I  painted  on  the  air 
The  image  of  a  stately  blonde 

With  rippling  auburn  hair. 

They  spoke  of  her  as  charming: 
And  I  fancied  I  should  find 

Simplicity  and  dignity 
Delightfully  combined 

'Twas  in  a  crowded  concert  hall, 
One  evening,  first  we  met ; 

That  night's  impressions  were  so  keen 
I  seem  to  feel  them  yet. 

Before  us  stood  a  singer  famed 
From  Sweden's  distant  strand, 

And  sang  us  ballads  sweet  and  weird, 
Songs  of  her  native  land, 

Until  we  seemed  to  hear  the  wind 
Breathe  through  the  fir-trees  high. 


The  Real  and  the  Ideal,   ,  »        « 

And  caught  the  moan  of  sobbing  waves 

And  the  wild  sea-bird's  cry. 
■3f  -^  -x-  -^  -x- 

The  last  rich  note  had  died  away 

With  cadence  soft  and  low ; 
Reluctantly,  with  lingering  feet, 

I  turned  at  length  to  go. 

When  by  my  side  I  heard  a  friend 

To  some  one  near  him  say : 
"  Miss  Brown,  pray  let  me  introduce 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Gray." 

I  turned,  the  lady,  smiling,  bowed, 

Then  slowly  raised  her  head ; 
And,  leaving  not  a  wrack  behind, 

My  fair  ideal  fled. 

A  little  black-haired,  dark-eyed  maid 

Coquettishly  attired. 
Whose  very  ribbons  seemed  to  urge 

Her  claims  to  be  admired, 

Played  with  a  costly  ring,  which  bore 

A  very  quaint  device, 
Then  raised  her  large,  dark  eyes,  and  said, 

"  O^  isn^t  Ntlsson  nice  I " 

Mary  R,  ^tearns.  'y6. 


/v^^F  mu  ^^^ 


52  The  Royal   Wine. 


THE   ROYAL  WINE. 

The  year  was  one  of  plenty.     Every  field 
Had  borne  its  fullest  store  of  golden  grain  \ 
And  merry,  frolic-loving  girls  and  boys, 
That,  every  harvest,  plucked  the  rosy  fruits. 
Or  skillfully,  with  one  well-rounded  arm, 
Poised  on  their  heads  the  baskets  full  of  grapes, 
This  year  had  double  time  of  merriment. 

A  little  valley,  high  among  the  hills. 
Whose  sunny  slopes  were  darkened  here  and  there 
By  thrifty  vineyards  in  well-ordered  rows. 
Afar  and  near  was  famed  for  goodly  wines. 
Yet  one  there  was  that  far  surpassed  the  rest, 
Sparkling  and  sweet  and  clear  as  drink  of  gods, 
The  secret  of  whose  making  no  man  knew 
Except  one  aged  vintner. 

Now,  although 
Never  before  was  known  such  luscious  yield 
Of  purple  grapes  untouched  by  frost  or  rain, 
This  year  men  sought  in  vain  the  royal  wine; 
And  all  who  questioned,  wondering,  received 
The  single  answer,  '^  Nay,  the  wine  you  ask 


i 


The  Royal   Wine.  53 

I  cannot  make,"  and  wondered  yet  the  more; 
Till  one  fair  youth  besought  the  aged  man: 
**  Pray  tell  us,  father,  why  you  cannot  press 
In  such  a  bounteous  year  the  choicest  wine?" 
Then  answer  came,  "Except  the  purpling  grape 
Be  touched  with  chilling  dews  and  autumn  frost, 
The  purest,  goodliest  wine  of  all  must  fail." 

O  Heart,  count  not  too  high  thy  summer  days : 
The  royal  wine  comes  only  after  frost ! 

Alice  E.  Pratt,  '81. 


54  A  Lament 


A   LAMEJSTT. 


Songs,  they  float  in  the  poet's  heart, 

Songs  in  many  keys. 
Bright  as  the  light  in  the  eastern  sky 

When  the  brooding  daylight  flees. 

Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  wine, 

Songs  of  peace  and  war, 
Of  the  whispering  wind  in  the  sunny  vale, 

Of  the  storm  and  gale  afar. 

They  mingle  and  range  with  endless  change 

Before  his  raptured  gaze ; 
But  all  that  his  groveling  pen  can  give 

Is  a  soulless  paraphrase. 

A.  F.  Mies,  '82. 


Ichabod,  55 


ICHABOD. 

Once  to  their  earthly  ways  an  angel  came, 

And  opened  in  their  sight  the  gates  of  pearl. 

O,  happy  they,  that  for  a  moment  then 

God's  glory  fell  upon  their  lifted  brows ! 

Happy  of  all  the  earth  that  even  once, 

And  for  one  moment,  they  should  catch  the  peace 

Of  angel-smiles  dropped  down  the  heavenly  light 

Transfiguring  earth,  and  all  earth's  well-known  scenes. 

Blest  above  others,  yea,  through  all  the  years, 

That  could  not  rob  them  of  that  moment's  sight. 

But  when  the  gates  were  shut,  the  glory  gone, 
And  earth  and  tree  again  but  rock  and  wood, 
All  glory  seemed  departed  from  the  earth. 
What  was  there  in  the  sky  but  empty  blue? 
What  on  the  sea  but  waves  and  empty  sound? 
And  what  but  emptiness  in  all  earth's  paths? 

The  people  who  had  never  been  so  blessed, 
The  happy  people,  passed  them  to  and  fro 
About  their  labor,  cheered  at  every  step 
By  dusky  blue  of  distant  pine-clad  hills, 


56  Ichahod. 

Or  hidden  tinkle  of  some  wayside  stream. 
But  they  to  whom  the  gates  were  opened  walked 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  wept  within  their  hearts; 
^'O,  what  to  us  are  sweetest  streams  of  earth 
Who  hear  no  more  the  streams  of  Paradise? 
What  are  earth's  hills  to  us,  who  shall  behold 
No  more  the  everlasting  hills  of  God? 
The  glory  is  departed  from  our  lives." 

But  when  one  said,  "If  we  had  never  known 
That  moment's  vision — since  for  aye  with  it 
The  glory  is  departed  from  our  lives — 
Were  it  not  better?"  they  all  cried,  "No,  no, 
For  all  our  lives  were  empty  but  for  that." 

Milicent  Washburn  Shinn.  '/j^. 


The  Patrician^ s  Daughter,  57 


THE   PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

O,  WHAT  is  Rome  to  me?     Must  I  forever 

Sit  listening  to  the  tramp  of  human  feet 

That  pass  and  pass,  the  while  a  laughter  smites 

The  pavement — silly,  senseless  mirth  ? 

My  soul  is  sick  of  city  sounds.     O,  let  me  flee 

To  where  the  piny  north-lands  lie  in  shade 

Of  mountain  forests,  and  the  rivers  run. 

Watering  the  grassy  meadows,  toward  the  sea ! 

O,  hateful  is  to  me  the  formless  heaven 

That  holds  the  senseless  glare  of  noonday  sun 

Above  this  Rome !     O,  hateful  is  to  me 

The  very  wind,  that,  hiding  all  the  long  forenoon 

Within  the  vineyards,  now  comes,  like  a  Greek, 

Stealthily  gliding  down  the  length  of  Rome ! 

The  very  air  would  stifle  me,  as  did 

The  heat  my  tiny  flower  upon  the  steps. 

This  sullen,  slow  existence,  measured  off 

By  games,  by  dances,  festivals,  and  feasts — 

I  shrink  from  it  abhorrent !  for  in  me, 

Perchance,  is  something  of  my  father's  fire, 

His  warrior-spirit,  that  has  made  my  life, 

My  petty,  worthless  life,  intolerable. 


5^  The  Patrician's  Daughter, 

O,  when  a  triumph  passes,  then  my  heart 
Beats  wildly!     Then  the  Roman  blood 
Mounts  up  into  my  face,  and  stings  my  brow, 
And  throbs  upon  my  temples  at  the  thought 
Of  great  and  glorious  deeds !     The  while  I  stand 
To  watch  the  warriors  pass,  a  fierce  desire 
To  be  heroic  comes  upon  me.     But  I  turn, 
A  moment  after,  in  a  woman's  way, 
Within  the  house,  to  pretty  duties  there, 
To  spin,  and  sew,  and  dress  becomingly ! 

I  long  for  power,  for  knowledge,  for  a  soul 

Strong  in  itself,  and  large  enough  to  grasp 

The  mysteries  of  life.     The  livelong  day 

I  thirst  for  wisdom,  and  the  livelong  night 

I  toss  impatient,  praying  of  the  gods 

To  tell  me  what  our  life  is,  or  to  say 

Of  what  avail  it  is  to  live  at  all. 

Twere  sacrilege  to  say  they  do  not  know, 

But  who  can  stop  the  thought?     Sometimes  I  think 

I  would  not  even  fear  the  mighty  gods, 

So  bold  I  grow  in  my  desire  to  find 

The  deeper  meaning  in  the  things  I  see. 

For  not  a  statue  guards  the  corridors, 

Or  bends  above  a  fountain,  but  I  feel 

Mysterious  pity  dropping  from  her  eyes 


The  Patrician's  Daughter.  59 

Upon  me;  and  I  never  see  the  crowds 
Go  by  with  mocking  laughter,  and  the  jests 
They  find  so  pleasing  to  them,  but  I  see 
A  sadness  in  the  statue's  carven  mouth, 
A  scorn  of  shallow  hearts  upon  her  brow. 
Never  a  dewy  morn,  but  with  it  comes 
A  sadness  from  the  curve  of  kneeling  hills. 
And  when  the  moonlight  makes  the  city  pale 
And  weird,  behold  in  every  sound 
An  echo  of  some  world  beyond  our  own. 
And  when  the  long  hours  of  the  afternoon 
Hold  just  enough  of  silence  to  be  sweet. 
And  just  enough  of  sound  to  let  me  hear 
The  city  noises  as  a  far-off  wind. 
That  swells,  and  dies,  and  bears  with  it 
A  dreamy  memory  of  some  far-off  world 
I  used  to  live  in; — then  I  long  to  flee, 
No  matter  w^here,  if  only  unto  me 
Will  come  the  answer  to  this  mystery. 

O,  but  our  life  is  full  of  every  joy ! — 

The  feasts,  and  baths,  the  dances  and  the  games. 

These  keep  our  wise  attention,  till  we  grow 

Dizzy  with  all  the  w^hirling,  and  the  sound 

Of  crazy  music,  played  by  stupid  slaves; 

Till  we  are  blind  with  heat,  and  glare,  arid  noise. 


6o  The  Patrician^ s  Daughter. 

O,  sweet  is  life!     Should  not  I  be  content? 

For  have  I  not  the  jewels  that  would  make 

The  Thracian  girls  go  mad  for  jealousy? 

If  ever  I  am  silent,  bring  to  me 

Another  bracelet — it  will  soothe  my  soul! 

If  tearful,  I  must  surely  be  in  grief 

For  lack  of  lovers  or  of  fringed  robes. 

Another  amethyst  will  surely  bring 

The  joy  back  to  my  face:  for,  since  I  am 

A  woman,  all  my  heart's  necessity 

Must  be  in  silly  splendors  such  as  these ! 

But,  look  now,  you  shall  see  to-night, 

I'll  set  my  foolish  fears  aside. 

And  let  my  Roman  lover,  kneeling  here, 

Say  all  he  wishes  of  my  eyes  and  hair. 

And  of  my  hands  that  wear  the  jewels  he 

Has  given.     Who'll  say  that  on  my  cheek  to-day 

The  hot  tears  fell?     Who'll  say  that  while  I  stand 

And  seem  to  gaze  upon  him,  that  I  see 

A  vision  only,  and  beyond  his  form; 

A  vision,  too,  of  distant,  happy  lands. 

Where  long,  swift  rivers  pour  their  currents  deep 

Into  the  rocky-prisoned  seas;  and  where 

The  pines — hush!  do  I  hear  them?— stand  aloft, 

And  clash  and  shiver  in  the  autumn  wind. 


The  Patrician^ s  Daughter,  6i 

Were  I  the  statue  on  yon  temple,  then 
Methinks,  though  very  marble,  I  would  cry, 
Would  shrill  forth  such  a  long  and  piercing  cry, 
That  even  the  Roman  populace  would  hear. 
And  give  attention,  and  would  say  of  me, 
"The  girl  is  earnest,"  and  would  surely  know 
A  woman  has  a  soul  for  something  more 
Than  silly  laughter  and  her  jewelry. 
O,  that  I  could  be  yon  statue,  goddess-like ! 
The  quiet  eyes,  and  mouth  that  will  not  change, 
Tell  to  us  surely  how  the  sculptor  wrought 
In  reverence  the  beauty  of  her  form. 
Her  face  looks  steadfastly  upon  the  heaven 
While  we,  the  foolish,  crowd  and  pass  below; 
Upon  her  brow  dwell  dignity  and  pride, 
And  silent  scorn  of  weakness.     Heaven-deep 
The  wisdom  that  her  solemn  eyelids  hold. 
And  I  who  stand  in  the  broad  noon  to  see 
Her  marvelous  beauty  and  forget  my  hate 
Of  the  small  world  I  live  in,  find  my  thought 
Grown  larger,  and  a  worshipful 
Sweet  sense  of  peace  and  longing  satisfied 
Stays  with  me,  like  her  presence  at  my  side. 

Clara  Bartling^  'yS, 


62  Renaissance, 


RENAISSANCE. 

I  SAW  the  black  clouds  fiercely  driven 

Across  a  leaden,  wintry  sky; 
And  all  the  land  lay  dark  and  fearful, 

The  spirit  of  the  storm  was  nigh. 

The  thin  old  streams  seemed  full  of  terror, 
They  crept  like  guilty  things  away; 

Beneath  their  banks  of  dying  herbage. 
Dead  myriads  of  the  summer  lay. 

1'he  saplings  of  the  forest  trembled; 

The  great  trees  stood  unmoved  as  rock; 
And  all  the  land  lay  dark  and  silent, 

Awaiting  dumb  the  threatened  shock. 

It  came.     The  wind  swept  on  in  fury, 

And  fierce  and  keen  the  lightnings  flashed; 

The  mountains  wrapped  their  heads  in  vapors. 
And  loud  the  rolling  thunders  crashed. 

The  whelming  rain  floods  fell  in  torrents, 
The  beating  hail  came  thick  and  fast, 


Renaissance.  6j 

The  thin  old  streams  swelled  into  rivers, 
The  forests  bowed  beneath  the  blast. 

The  wasted  banks  of  dying  herbage, 

And  strong  banks  standing  clean  and  free, 

Were  lifted  by  the  yellow  torrent, 
Then  swept  out  swiftly  towards  the  sea. 

And  when  the  storm  had  spent  its  fury. 
There,  numbed  and  beaten,  lay  the  land ; 

And  far  and  wide  was  desolation 
Of  new  and  old,  on  every  hand. 

Alas,  I  thought,  what  woful  ruin ! 

Fair  fields,  brave  cliffs,  and  woods  all  scarred; 
Old  sober  Autumn's  plaintive  quiet 

By  wintry  storms  disturbed  and  marred. 

But  then,  the  voice  of  Reason  answered, 
For  Nature's  plan  you  have  no  thought; 

You  love  too  well  the  Autumn  quiet. 
Its  peace,  of  dying  glories  wrought. 

The  storms  of  Winter  tear  from  Autumn 
Dead  forms  and  dying  glories  bright; 

And  some  of  good  and  fair  must  suffer. 
That  Spring  may  come  with  life  and  light. 

Jane  Barry^  ^8i. 


64  Beside  the  Camp-Fire. 


BESIDE   THE   CAMP-FIRE. 

I  WATCHED  beside  the  embers 

Far  in  the  chilly  night; 
And  well  my  heart  remembers 

That  flickering,  dying  light; 
The  spire  of  smoke  ascending 

White  from  the  embers  red, 
And  in  the  night-wind  bending 

And  drifting  overhead. 

The  stars  like  steel  points  glisten, 

The  trees  stand  grimly  by, 
And  there  I  lie  and  listen 

And  watch  the  camp-fire  die. 
Then  all  is  chill  and  lonely, 

No  sound  in  the  forest  great 
But  the  sigh  of  the  night-wind  only; 

And  the  hour  is  cold  and  late. 

And  I  think  how  foolish  is  loving, 
How  lightly  is  kindled  its  spark. 

To  blaze  with  the  breeze's  moving, 
And  fade  in  the  midnight  dark : 


Beside  the  Ca7?ip-Fire,  65 

The  warmer  the  heat  of  its  glowing 
The  quicker  its  glowing  shall  die ; 

Love  lingers  an  hour  in  his  going 
Then  passes  forgetfully  by. 

The  winds  in  the  valley  are  rushing, 

And  nearer  their  trampling  feet 
Up  the  canon  are  coming,  and  crushing 

Dead  leaves  in  their  march  so  fleet. 
Their  keen  breath  shivers  through  me; 

A  chill  to  my  heart  it  sends, 
For  it  seems  to  whisper  to  me, 

"Cold  are  the  hearts  of  thy  friends; 
Love  beckons  but  to  undo  thee, 

And  the  truest  of  friendship  ends." 

But  the  winds  rush  on,  and  the  ashes 

Are  blown  by  the  hurrying  host. 
As  onward  the  night-wind  dashes 

In  the  depths  of  the  forest  lost; 
But  deep  in  the  ashes  hidden 

To  smoldering  coals  it  came, 
And  lo,  by  its  long  blast  bidden, 

They  glow  and  leap  in  flame ! 

The  cold  wind  has  passed  o'er  me, 
And  soon  the  trees  are  still; 


66  Beside  the  Camp-Inre. 

lUit  the  cam])- fire  glows  before  me, 
And  my  heart  is  no  longer  chill. 

And  I  sleep  until  daylight  streaming 
And  lighting  the  forest  afar, 

Finds  the  camp-fire  still  faithfully  gleaming 
Out-watching  the  pale  morning  star. 

/.   C,  Shinn,  '83. 


Berkeley  JFbg,  -t  (jy 


BERKELEY    FOG. 

TiiK  Berkeley  hills  arc  beautiful, 
But  slowly  creeps  the  mist, 

And  covers  all  their  golden  sides, 
That  late  the  sun  has  kissed. 

We  murmur  at  the  dreary  pall, 
Nor  dream  that  it  may  be 

Something  begun  in  centuries  dead, 
A  message  from  the  sea. 

The  ocean  loves  the  Berkeley  hills. 
For  once,  long  years  ago, 

His  waters  laved  their  gentle  slopes, 
With  restless  ebb  and  flow. 

His  true  old  heart  caiuiot  torget 
The  hills  he  loved  so  well, 

And  so  he  send-J  a  messenger, 
His  constant  love  to  tell. 

('lad  all  in  gray  this  messenger, 
Save  when  the  inooiTs  sol't  lit-ht 


-A  t.    .^ 

(lUIflVBRSITrl 


68  Berkeley  Fog. 

Lends  to  his  wings  a  silver  hue 
That  brightens  all  the  night. 

He  gently  flies  and  whispers  low; 

Silent  his  voice  to  men; 
But  well  the  hills  know  what  he  says, 

And  welcome  him  again. 

Seddie  E,  Anderson,  'y8. 


*^/  will  lift  up  Mine  Eyes  unto  the  Hills. ^^    69 


"I  WILL   LIFT   UP   MINE   EYES   UNTO 
THE    HILLS." 

O  HAPPY  hills  in  living  green  arrayed; 

O  fair  round  hills  with  wild  flowers  overspread ; 
Returning  the  sun's  smile,  or  flecked  with  shade 

Of  fleecy  clouds  that  slowly  sail  o'erhead — 
Who,  lifting  up  to  you  his  tired  eyes, 

Feels  not  his  sad  discouragement  give  way? 
The  joyful  beauty  of  your  cheerfulness 

Has  given  him  courage  for  another  day. 

O  quiet  hills  in  brown  and  sober  dress, 

Outlined  against  the  faint  blue  evening  sky, 
Serene  you  stand,  and  calm  and  passionless. 

While  round  you  sunset  colors  softly  die. 
Who,  looking  on  your  silent  majesty, 

Feels  not  his  soul  with  tender  memories  fill; 
While  the  wild  tumult  of  his  throbbing  heart 

Is  silenced  by  your  voiceless,  "Peace,  be  still"? 
Marcia  S.  £>ay,  '83. 


70  The  Master. 


THE   MASTER. 

A  GROUP  of  careless  children 

Were  busily  at  play, 
When  by  their  narrow  dwelling 

The  Master  paused  that  day 

They  looked  up  to  his  deep  eyes 
And  lighted  forehead  clear ; 

The  toys  slipped  from  their  fingers, 
And  wondering  they  drew  near. 

They  felt  his  look  of  kindness. 
They  touched  his  garment's  hem, 

And  heard  in  unknown  music 
His  gentle  words  to  them. 

They  answered  his  sweet  questioning 
In  broken  speech  and  low. 

But  caught  such  words  of  wisdom 
As  childish  hearts  might  know. 

He  said  no  word  of  parting. 
But  only  kindly  cheer; 


The  Master.  71 

Then  down  the  ringing  pathway 
His  measured  step  they  hear, 

With  echo  down  the  pathway, 

And  rustle  through  the  wood; 
But  they  scarce  knew  when  he  left  them, 

So  worship-rapt  they  stood. 

Now  closer  from  their  seeing 

The  great  trees  close  him  round; 

They 'hush  their  hearts,  to  lose  not 
The  dying  footsteps'  sound. 

They  know  him  gone  forever, 

His  way  they  may  not  trace, 
Except  in  dreams  shall  see  not 

That  beautiful,  sad  face; 

But  still,  their  own  feet  checking, 

They  softly  walking  go. 
And  still  they  hush  their  wild  hearts 

To  beating  soft  and  low. 

For  farther  yet  and  farther 

The  dear  sound  dies  away. 
And  even,  perhaps,  that  echo 

They  may  not  keep  alway. 

Annie  H.  Shinn^  ^78. 


IN    LYRIC    MOOD. 


IN    LYRIC    MOOD. 


AT  SUNSET. 

At  sunset,  hark,  a  low  deep  sound 

Is  borne  across  the  placid  bay, 
And  through  the  hills,  and  far  around 
In  echoes  faint,  it  dies  away. 
A  boom — the  sunset  gun 
Is  fired:  the  day  is  done; 
The  purple  shadows  coming  on 
Are  deepening  in  the  west. 

And  homeward  turns  each  white  spread  sail 

As  flies  a  wild  bird  to  its  nest ; 
The  stir  of  day  on  hill,  in  vale. 

In  busy  city,  thronged  and  pressed. 
Is  dying  with  the  light. 
The  last  rays  linger  bright 
On  far-off  clouds,  and  holy  night 
Descends,  with  welcome  rest. 

Jane  Barry ^  ^8i. 


76  Summer  Night 


SUMMER   NIGHT. 

The  vast  half-sphere  of  plain  and  sky 

Brims  full  with  pallid  light ; 
Moon-whitened  all  the  grain-fields  lie, 

Like  seas  grown  still  with  night; 
And  scattered  houses,  far  and  nigh, 

Among  their  trees  gleam  white. 
O,  warmly  does  the  night  infold 
The  earth,  caressed  with  showers  of  gold. 
And  yet,  not  so,  sweet  night, 
Not  so  I  long  for  thee, 
Not  so  come  thou  to  me. 

Come,  mighty  shade,  till  earth  might  be 

Alone  in  primal  space, 
Till  I  lie  drowned  beneath  a  sea 

That  upward  from  my  face 
Goes  on  and  on  unendingly, 
Nor  hints  of  time  or  place ; 
Till  I  might  think  that  o'er  my  eyes, 
Close  shut,  the  earth  forever  lies. 
So  longs  my  soul  for  thee, 
O,  so,  I  pray,  sweet  night. 
So  come  thou  unto  me. 

Milicent  Washburn  Shtnn,  '/(?. 


J^oaquin  Miller.  77 


JQAQUIN    MILLER. 

I  SAID  to  myself  as  the  world  turned  round, 
Turned  over  and  over  like  a  man  in  bed : 

I  will  git  up  and  git,  I  will  leave  the  ground, 
ril  lift  myself  up  by  the  hair  of  my  head, 

By  the  marvelous  hair  of  my  head,  or  the  strength 

Of  a  song  that's  as  strong  and  of  greater  length. 

Yea,  out  of  my  boots  like  a  sky-rocket ;  yea, 
Up  out  of  the  Sun-land  I'll  shoot  as  I  sing; 

And  then  I  will  kiss  my  strong  hand  to  the  day. 
And  drink  of  the  sun  as  drinking  gin-sling. 

Till  Europe  rolls  under  me,  then  in  the  nick 

Of  time  I'll  stop  singing  and  drop  like  a  stick. 

Roscoe  Havens^  ^yg. 


78  Despondency. 


DESPONDENCY 

The  daylight  wanes;  across  the  panes 

A  fiery  glow  is  cast ; 
It  pales  away — and  so  the  day 

Is  done  at  last ! 
O  that  my  life,  so  full  of  strife, 

Might  burn  into  its  west ; 
Might  pale  away  as  did  the  day. 

And  find  its  rest ! 

O  tender  Night,  in  brooding  light 

Thy  shadowy  garments  fall : 
Let  me  forget  that  morning  yet 

Will  break  thy  blessed  thrall 
Thou  art  not  cold !     Dread  shade,  to  fold 

Me  close  thou  comest  now. 
O,  hide  me  far  in  some  dim  star 

On  thy  dark  brow ! 

How  sweet  to  die,  as  thus  I  lie 

Close  to  thy  breast ! 
Never  to  see — never  to  be— 

This  is  the  best. 


Despondency.  79 

Wake  not  to  weep;  only  to  sleep 

Forever  so  1 
Gone  is  the  pain  from  my  clear  brain. 

Night,  must  thou  go? 

Still  must  I  live?     Still  must  I  give 

Myself  to  the  world,  not  the  grave? 

Ho !  In  the  east  the  day  is  released — 
I  will  be  brave ! 

Musidore  Eowfitree,  ^y8. 


8o  Change. 


CHANGE. 

A  CLEAR,  rosy  flush  on  the  hill-tops, 
Soft  shadows  on  woodland  and  mere ; 

Come,  lark,  it  is  time  you  were  singing. 
For  morning,  bright  morning,  is  here. 

And  Love  cometh  in  with  the  morning, 
Dear  Love,  with  the  dew  on  his  feet; 

The  lilies  are  blooming  around  him, 
His  breath,  as  the  rosebuds,  is  sweet. 

O,  talk  not  to  me  of  the  shadows. 
For  daylight  is  bright  overhead, 

And  sunbeams  are  dancing  down  madly 
On  the  path  I  am  fated  to  tread. 

O  lark,  sing  his  praises  still  louder ! 

O,  may  morning  never  be  done ! 
Life  is  a  dream  in  the  sunlight. 

And  Fate  and  Love  are  as  one. 

^  ^  ^  ^  Ht 

A  dull,  leaden  light  on  the  hill-sides, 
Black  shadows  on  woodland  and  mere ! 


Change.  8i 

O  nightingale,  moan  from  the  copses 
For  night-fall,  dark  night-fall,  is  here. 

And  Death  cometh  sad  with  the  night-fall. 
All  muffled  and  solemn  his  tread, 

And  scattereth  myrtle  and  cypress ; 
For  Love,  at  night-fall,  is  dead. 

O,  talk  not  to  me  of  the  sunlight : 
Deep  shadows  lie  long  on  the  sod. 

And  clouds  gather  faster  and  faster. 
Behind,  on  .the  path  I  have  trod. 

Make  moaning,  O  nightingale,  louder ! 

For  night-fall  will  never  be  done. 
Life  is  a  dream  in  the  darkness, 

And  Fate  and  Death  are  as  one. 

''  Gath;'  '75, 


Light  and  Shade. 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE. 

O  WHEN  the  day  was  warm  and  bright, 

And  clearest  blue  the  sky, 
If  but  a  tiny  cloud  did  pass 
Across  the  sun's  face,  on  the  grass 

A  shadow  deep  would  lie ; 
And  dark  and  chill  the  day  seemed  grown 
Until  the  little  cloud  had  gone. 

But  when  the  sky  was  full  of  clouds 

That  hid  the  sun  all  day, 
If  but  one  beam  of  sweet  sunlight 
Burst  through  the  cloud,  O,  passing  bright 

All  seemed  from  that  one  ray; 
And  the  glad  earth  looked  up  in  bliss 
To  meet  the  sunshine's  cheering  kiss. 

Marcia  S.  Day^  '83, 


Night.  83 


NIGHT. 

Tis  night ! 
See  yon  cloudlet  adrift 

With  the  stars  and  the  moonbeams  at  play: 
So  gentle  its  kiss  on  the  brow  of  the  cliff, 
So  sweet  its  temptation  to  stray. 
That  I  follow  its  flight  far  away 
In  the  night. 

Sweet  night ! 
When  each  long  silver  beam 

Steals  down  through  the  branches  to  nie, 
And  the  zephyr  plays  over  the  stream 
With  itij  low  rippling  murmur  of  glee. 
O,  why  do  I  linger  with  thee, 
Mystic  night? 

Silent  night ! 
Like  a  passionate  dream, 

The  stillness  steals  over  the  soul; 
Wild  longings,  fond  memories  teem. 

As  thy  silvery  curtains  unroll ; 

Speak,  speak,  and  this  mystery  roll 

From  the  night! 

D.  S.  RichaT^son^  '7^. 


84  Wind  and  Wave. 


WIND   AND   WAVE. 

How  the  wind  sweeps  through  the  trees ! 

But  he  cares  not  there  to  revel, 

He  will  seek  the  placid  level 

Of  the  sea  that  lies  beyond ; 

Here  he  knows  a  song  to  sing 

That  will  rouse  the  sleeping  king. 

O,  the  wind  disdains  the  land, 
For  his  playmate  is  the  ocean; 
He  can  set  the  waves  in  motion, 
He  can  stir  the  mighty  main; 
And  the  song  of  wind  and  wave, 
Is  the  requiem  of  the  brave. 

Wind  and  water  wake  the  chorus, 
Till  the  sea-birds  stop  to  listen; 
Where  the  curling  white-caps  glisten 
There  is  music  grand  and  wild; 
Kindred  spirits  are  the  twain, 
Wild  and  gleeful  is  their  strain ! 

Seddie  E,  Anderson^  ^j8. 


Die  Stenilein.  85 


DIE   STERNLEIN. 

{From  the  German  of  Arndt.) 

'  The  sun,  he  started  to  ride  off  anew, 

Round  the  world. 
And  the  Httle  stars  said,  "Let  us  go  too 

Round  the  world." 
And  the  sun,  he  scolded  them:  "You  stay  at  home, 
I  shall  burn  out  your  little  gold  eyes  if  you  come 
On  my  fiery  ride  round  the  world." 

The  little  stars  went  to  the  dear  moon  too. 

In  the  night ! 
"O,  Queen  of  the  clouds,  may  we  wander  with  you. 

In  the  night? 
Let  us  go  with  you,  for  your  milder  glow 
Will  never  burn  out  our  eyes  if  we  go." 

So  she  took  them,  her  comrades  at  night. 

Now  welcome,  dear  moon,  and  little  stars  too, 

In  the  night. 
What  dwells  in  the  heart  is  well  known  unto  you, 

In  the  night. 
Come,  kindle  your  heavenly  lights  on  the  way. 
That  gladly  with  you  I  may  wander  and  play 
In  kindly  pleasures  of  night. 

Milicent  Washburn  Shinn,  '/p. 


// 


85  Gratitude. 


GRATITUDE. 

Down  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 

By  the  rippling  stream, 
Guarded  o'er  by  larks  and  thrushes, 

Shaded  from  the  sun's  bright  beam, 
Sat  I  in  the  amber  sunlight, 

With  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
Changing  places  with  the  soft  light 
Of  the  sun  upon  the  meadow. 

Like  the  droning  of  the  bees, 
Soft  the  sounds  went  up  about  me, 

Filling  heart  and  soul  and  sense — 
Which  were  lonely,  sad,  and  drear — 

With  a  happy  recompense. 
Casting  out  and  conquering  fear. 

When  I  look  about  me  calmly, 

In  the  morn  of  God's  bright  day, 
And  behold  the  beauties  shining — 

Blessings  cast  along  our  way — 
Looking  in  the  bright  blue  wave, 

On  the  hill,  the  vale,  the  sea. 
Can  I  pay  ingratitude 

For  such  goodness  shown  to  me? 


After  Sunset.  87 


AFTER   SUNSET. 

From  my  open  western  window 

Faintly  gleams  the  opal  sky; 
All  the  fire  and  all  the  passion,    , 
All  the  clouds  in  curious  fashion, 
Long  passed  by. 

In  the  heavens  a  sacred  silence — 

Everywhere  a  rapture  falls; 
If  the  sunset  glories  given 
Were  the  opening  gates  of  heaven 
These  were  then  the  outer  walls. 

These  pale  lines  on  lines  of  color, 

Every  moment  growing  dim, 
Walls  of  pearl  in  golden  setting. 
Amethyst  in  silver  fretting, 
To  the  heavens'  very  rim, 

Gleams  of  topaz  and  of  sapphire, 
Walls  of  jasper,  mighty,  strong. 
Walls  of  delicatest  shading, 
Growing  indistinct  and  fading 
As  the  moments  wear  along. 


88  After  Sunset. 

Faded  now  the  heavenly  ramparts, 

Where  the  sunset  portals  ope, 
Faded  from  my  mortal  vision 
Walls  that  guard  those  seas  Elysian, 
The  anchorage  of  hope. 

Westward  glows  the  star  of  even, 

Shining  on  a  world  asleep; 
And  the  skies  in  very  seeming, 
Distant,  grand,  are  brooding,  dreaming 
In  one  amethystine  sweep. 

But  I  know  this  heavenly  vision 

I  have  not  beheld  in  vain : 
There  sliall  be  some  place  and  time 
When  my  soul  in  heights  sublime 
Shall  behold  those  walls  again. 

Musidore  I^owntree,  'y8. 


Proven,  89 


PROVEN. 

I  HAVE  wandered,  O  Love,  in  your  pathways, 
I  have  rambled  the  length  of  the  land, 

I  have  drunk  of  your  bright,  bubbling  fountains, 
I  have  plucked  your  fair  fruits  with  my  hand, 

I  have  stood  in  your  rose-shaded  grottoes, 
I  have  knelt,  with  full  heart,  at  your  shrine, 

I  have  said,  of  your  rich,  varied  blessings, 
Some  surely,  O  Love,  must  be  mine. 

From  your  garden  there  comes  an  aroma 

As  fragrant  as  spice-laden  ships ; 
But  its  fruits  are  as  Dead  Sea  apples. 

To  ashes  they  turn  on  my  lips: 

And  down  in  your  rose-hid  recesses 

The  shadows  are  black  as  a  pall ; 
And  your  fountains  are  waters  of  Marah — 

Bitter,  yea,  bitter  as  gall. 

I  have  worshiped  and  knelt  at  your  altars 
Till  the  best  of  my  life  is  undone, 


90  Prove7i. 

And  of  all  of  your  boasted,  great  blessings, 
I  have  got  me  no  good  thing,  not  one. 

You  are  fair,  O  Love,  but  how  fickle ! 

I  will  hide  me  away  from  your  sight; 
I  will  gird  me  in  sackcloth,  despairing, 

And  mourn  to  the  desolate  night. 

Lulu  Medbery^  '80, 


Dreams  and  Reality,  91 


DREAMS   AND   REALITY. 

"Write  me  a  letter,  love,"  he  said, 
"Each  night  before  that  darling  head 

Sinks  on  its  guileless  pillow; 
And,  as  I  burn  the  midnight  oil, 
Your  words  will  gild  and  lighten  toil 

As  dawning  gilds  the  billow." 

Dear  girl !     Her  fancy  nightly  drew 
Pictures  of  care  the  student  knew : 

The  dreary  room  he  sat  in; 
His  aching  brow;  his  pallid  cheek; 
She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  Greek, 

And  all  that  "horrid  Latin." 

And,  ^'O  my  love!     You'll  surely  kill 
Yourself,"  she  wrote;  "I  know  you  will; 

You're  far,  far  too  ambitious"; 
And  then  bewailed,  in  piteous  plaint, 
Her  own  sad  state  in  such  event, 

And  signed,  ."Your  darling  precious." 


92  Dreams  and  Reality, 

That  night — I  mean  at  four  a.  m. — 
With  wavering  steps  the  student  came, 

A  brief  hour's  rest  to  borrow ; 
He  bound  his  head  with  towels  wet, 
He  smoked  a  final  cigarette, 
And  sighed,  "Twas  jolly! — but  you  bet 

ril  have  to  flunk  to-morrow!" 

F.  W.  Menshaw^  '/p. 


The  Blue-Bell  93 


THE   BLUE-BELL. 

A  RANKSOME  wced  above  her  bendeth, 
That  all  day  long  a  shadow  sendeth 

Close  o'er  her  fragile  head; 
The  sun  on  her  no  noon-ray  throweth, 
The  weed's  deep  shade  alone  she  knoweth — 

She  is  so  sheltered! 

But  all  the  night  a  heaven  bluer 

Than  noon-day  sky  leans  down  to  woo  her — 

Her  that  the  sun  forgot ! 
And  so  for  all  the  rough  weed's  willing, 
A  deeper  blue  her  heart  is  filling — 

Color  that  paleth  not. 

Clara  Bartling,  'y8. 


94  A   Cycle. 


A.   CYCLE. 


Spring-time — is  it  spring-time? 
Why,  as  I  remember  spring, 
Almonds  bloom  and  blackbirds  sing; 
Such  a  shower  of  tinted  petals  drifting  to  the  clovery 

floor, 
Such  a  multitudinous  rapture  raining  from  the  syca- 
more ; 
And  among  the  orchard  trees — 
Acres  musical  with  bees — 
Moans  a  wild  dove,  making  silence  seem  more  silent 
than  before. 

Yes,  that  is  the  blackbird's  note, 
Almond  petals  are  afloat ; 
But  I  had  not  heard  nor  seen  them,  for  my  heart  was 

far  away. 
Birds  and  bees  and  fragrant  orchards — ah !  they  can- 
not bring  the  May: 
For  the  human  presence  only, 
That  has  left  my  ways  so  lonely, 
Evier  can  bring  back  the  spring-time  to  my  autumn  of 
to-day. 


A  Cycle.  95 

11. 

Autumn — is  it  autumn? 
I  remember  autumn  yields 
Dusty  roads  and  stubble-fields; 
Weary  hills,  no  longer  rippled  o'er  their  wind-swept 

slopes  with  grain; 
Trees  all  gray  with  dust  that  gathers  ever  thicker  till 
the  rain; 
•    And  where  noisy  waters  drove 
Downward  from  the  heights  above, 
Only  bare  white  channels  wander  stonily  across  the 
plain. 

Yes,  I  see  the  hills  are  dry, 
Stubble-fields  about  me  lie. 
What  care  I  when  in  the  channels  of  my  life  once 

more  I  see 
Sweetest  founts  long  sealed  and  sunken  bursting  up- 
ward glad  and  free? 
Hills  may  parch  or  laugh  in  greenness, 
Sky  be  sadness  or  sereneness, 
Thou  my  life,  my  best  beloved,  all  my  spring-time 
comes  with  thee. 

Milicent  Washburn  Shinn^  '/p. 


(i 


9^  Enter  Jimc, 


ENTER  JUNE. 

May  goes  out  in  gentle  fashion — 
Maiden  month  untouched  of  passion. 
Enter  June  the  balmy,  breezy 
Queen,  with  stately  step  and  easy ; 
Brow  that  brown  is  as  her  berries; 
Cheeks  the  crimson  of  her  cherries; 
On  her  lips  that  thrill  or  fret  us 
All  the  honey  of  Hymettus. 
June  that  makes  the  bird's  note  clearer, 
Moonlight,  starlight,  brighter,  nearer, 
Bringing  in  her  rosy  train 
All  dehcious  things  again — 
Grace  that  winter  was  forlorn  of, 
Beauty  heart  the  coldest  warms  to; 
Buds  of  vines  and  branches,  born  of 
x\prirs  tears,  of  May's  soft  laughing, " 
She  with  magic  touch  transforms  to 
Cups  of  nectar  for  our  quaffing. 
Enter  June — the  rosy,  ruddy ! 
Come  and  respite  bring  from  study: — 
Send  the  home-sick  Freshie  off, 
And  relieve  us  of  the  Soph. ; 


Enter  June.  97 

Give  the  Jun.  a  rest;  the  Sen. 
Launch  with  all  his  laurels  green. 
Put  the  volume  on  the  shelf; 
Teach  me  only  of  yourself. 
Underneath  your  glowing  skies, 
Lull  me  with  your  lullabies. 
But  let  not  your  tongue  relinquish 
One  dear  accent  of  your  English: 
In  the  tender  words  you  speak 
Be  no  syllable  of  Greek; 
From  your  lips  as  soft  as  satin 
Not  a  single*  hint  of  Latin. 
Then  my  muse,  I  trust,  will  sing  you 
Fairest  flatteries  will  bring  you — 
June,  the  neatest,  sweetest,  meetest 
Month,  of  all  the  months  completest. 

F.  TV.  Henshaw^  ^yg. 


98  Sea- Bird, 


SEA-BIRD. 

Sea-bird,  on  thy  broad,  white  pinions, 
Wherefore  dost  thou  sadly  cry? 

Beating  out  with  vain  complainings 
All  thy  strength  against  the  sky; 

Spurning  all  the  sandy  reaches 
Where  the  sunlight  warmly  falls; 

Scorning  all  the  cool,  gray  beaches; 
Wheeling  swift  o'er  high  cliff  walls. 

Now  I  see  thee,  flying  fleetly. 
Where  a  white  sail  seaward  lies, 

Where  the  billows  rise  to  meet  thee, 
Echoing  back  thy  lonely  cries; 

And  I  watch  thy  restless  motion 

Far  into  the  fllmy  blue. 
Till  commingled  sky  and  ocean 

Hide  thee  from  my  present  view. 

But  again  upon  the  morrow. 

Where  white  surf-lines  long  waves  crown 


Sea-Bird.  99 

Thou  wilt  wail  anew  thy  sorrow, 
Wandering  restless  up  and  down. 

Though  the  light  fall  in  a  glory 

On  the  sea  from  cloudless  sky; 
Though  the  storm  rise  dark  and  hoary — 

And  the  white-caps  ride  on  high; 

Bird,  thy  white  wings  weary  never, 

Bearing  on  thy  restless  form. 
And  thy  voice  is  calling  ever. 

Through  the  evening,  through  the  morn. 

Art  thou  haunted  by  the  spirit 

Of  a  restless  human  life  ? 
Dost  thou,  too,  with  man,  inherit 

Baseless  hopes  and  endless  strife? 

Jane  Barry ^  ^81, 


Off  Shore. 


OFF   SHORE. 

The  day  has  died 

Off  shore,  off  sea. 
Idly  I  ride 
On  the  purple  tide, 

Setting  away  from  me. 

Setting  away 

From  the  gleaming  sands, 
Toward  the  vanished  day. 
And  the  mountains  gray, 

And  dim,  mysterious  lands. 

The  fainting  light 

In  the  tender  west. 
The  rose  flush  bright, 
The  still  delight, 

The  joyful  rest, 
All,  all  are  mine. 

I  live  in  the  glow. 

In  the  rhythmical  flow, 
Of  a  silence  divine ! 


Off  Shore.  i< 

Still  as  I  dream 

0  might  I  glide — 
Drift  with  the  stream 
Toward  day's  last  gleam 
On  the  ebbing  tide ! 
There  on  the  infinite  ocean 
The  billows  in  mighty  motion 
Are  one  anthem  of  devotion 

Unto  him. 
From  the  golden  sea-sands  shifting, 
On  the  golden  sea-tide  drifting, 
Go  I  to  those  billows  lifting 

Their  grand  heads  in  distance  dim — 
To  those  clouds  in  glory  rifting 

On  the  ocean's  westward  rim. 

And  my  cheek  is  never  paling 
At  the  thought  of  such  far  sailing, 
And  with  courage  never  failing 

1  shall  reach  that  distant  sea. 
There,  where  last  the  sun  was  shining, 
One  broad  golden  ray  defining, 

I'll  find  the  day  in  its  declining, 
And  it  never  more  shall  flee ; 

For  my  soul,  with  sea  combining, 
Shall  be  offered  up  to  Thee, 


Off  Shore, 

Holding  in  its  earnest  thrall 
The  love,  the  essence,  and  the  all — 
The  twilight  of  a  glorious  day 
That  faded  from  the  world  away. 

Miisidore  Rownfree^  '/8. 


Mora  Rock.  103 

MORO    ROCK. 

(SAN  LUIS  OBISPO  COUNTY.) 

Glad  were  the  winds  that  blew 
My  blossom-like  canoe, 
That  sang  the  waters  through, 

In  placid  Moro  Bay — 

The  dreamy  cove  that  lay 

Behind  the  fortress  gray 
OPstill  and  stately  Moro. 

Sad  was  the  inland  view: 
Broad  reach  of  muddy  slough, 
Brown  hills  where  nothing  grew — 

A  world  that  seemed  to  say, 

"  Our  life  is  gone  away 

Into  that  steady  gray, 
Grim,  living  strength  of  Moro !" 

Grand  was  the  outer  sight: 
An  ocean  foamy  white, 
Storming  in  deadly  might, 


to4  Moro  Rock. 

The  narrow  portal  place; 
Under  the  awful  gaze 
Sent  through  the  misty  haze 
By  sleepless,  watchful  Moro. 

Lean  back,  and  watch  the  slow 
Mast-motion  to  and  fro, 
And  hear  the  waters  flow 
In  happy,  devious  ways; 
Your  eyes  in  half  a  daze, 
While  mellow  sunlight  plays 
On  chequer-fronted  Moro. 

Dream  thou  of  stranded  ships, 
Moons  lost  in  dumb  eclipse, 
Or  false  or  parted  lips; 
This  is  the  place  for  these 
Soul-haunting  memories — 
Here  in  the  guarded  seas 
Of  secret-keeping  Moro. 

Know  thou,  that  thou  mayst  drift, 
Or  else,  with  sail  uplift, 
Speed  on  in  motion  swift; 


Aloro  Rock. 

But  still  across  all  moods 
One  shape  the  same  intrudes; 
Above  each  fancy  broods 
The  somber  crag  of  Moro. 


So  drift  and  dream,  and  hear 
Soul-forces  drawing  near — 
Strong  lessons  meant  to  cheer: 
.  The  granite  master  braves 
The  white  blows  of  the  waves, 
And  all  weak  things  are  slaves 
To  hearts  held  steady,  Moro ! 

Charles  H.  Shinn^  '7^. 


105 


io6  The  Peasant  Children. 


THE   PEASANT   CHILDREN. 

Musing  at  a  castle-window 
In  the  heat  of  summer-noon, 
What  strange  pity  drew  my  musings 

From  the  sky, 
From  the  promise-gladdened  harvests 

Waving  high, 
To  a  little  sigh  of  summer. 

Borne  upon  a  languid  wind, 
That  some  flitting  fairy  comer 

Broken-hearted,  left  behind? 
For  the  sigh  went  through  my  musings 

Changing  all  the  scene  to  me, 
As  a  minor  chord  will  alter 

All  the  joy  of  major  key. 
And  I  watched  the  peasant  children, 

On  whose  faces  tears  had  been ; 
And  the  hunger-lines  were  staying, 
Even  now  while  they  were  playing, 
But  for  want  of  care  and  comfort 

Finding  little  joy  therein. 
And  their  pitiful  distress 
Mocked  their  seeming  happiness. 


TJie  Peasant  Children.  107 

Playing  there, 
In  among  the  grassy  places, 

With  their  hair 
Blown  from  off  their  sun-burned  faces. 

Clara  Bartling^  ^y8. 


io8  The  Dark  Hour. 


THE   DARK   HOUR. 


It  is  dark,  aye  so  dark, 

Though  the  moon  is  on  high, 
And  the  clouds  are  all  swept  from 
The  star-studded  sky. 

It  is  dark,  aye  so  dark, 

And  all  still  seems  the  vale; 
But  I  hear  from  the  pine  woods 
The  wind's  dismal  wail. 

It  is  dark,  aye  so  dark, 

For  a  life's  thread  is  broken, 
And  I  mourn  with  a  mourning 
That  may  not  be  spoken. 

It  is  dark,  aye  so  dark. 

But  there  must  come  a  breaking; 
For  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  God 
Man-forsaking. 

It  is  dark,  aye  so  dark, 
But  the  night  cannot  last; 


'    The  Dark  Hour.  109 

For  the  life  of  a  man  is  not  all 
In  the  past. 

It  will  break,  it  will  break, 

For  my  hope  is  not  gone, 
There  will  come,  there  must  come. 
As  to  every  night,  dawn. 

Herman  Dwinelle,  '/c?. 


no  The    W2irmli?igeii   Chapel. 

THE   WURMLINGEN   CHAPEL. 

{From  the  Gcrmaii  of  Lcnati.) 

Airy  as  a  light  canoe 

On  a  green  wave's  rounded  line, 
Poises,  outlined  in  the  blue, 

On  a  hill,  a  chapel  shrine. 

Once,  at  twilight  waning  dim, 
Through  its  vacant  aisles  I  stole. 

Sacred  song  and  vesper  hymn 
Whispered  dreamlike  to  my  soul. 

And  the  mother's  picture  there 
On  the  altar  seemed  to  gaze, 

Seemed  in  sorrow,  saintly  fair. 
Pondering  o'er  the  ancient  days. 

Redly  comes  the  morning  sun, 
Fondly  falls  the  evening  ray. 

O'er  the  pictured  sorrowing  one; 
Human  feet  here  seldom  stray. 

Gently  here  a  secret  power 

Held  my  thoughts  in  magic  thrall; 


The    IViirnilingen   Chapel.  ii 

'Twas  as  if,  at  that  lone  hour, 
Benediction  fell  o'er  all. 

Warmly  bright  the  sunlight  laves 
Chancel,  wall,  and  time-worn  floor; 

And  the  hosts  of  grass-grown  graves 
Silent  lie  forevermora 

Peace  of  Autumn  dwells  in  love 
Where  those  graves  forgotten  lie; 

Yonder  in  the  blue  above 

Summer  wild-birds  southward  fly. 

Slumber,  silence,  evermore! 

Many  a  mound  is  sunken  deep, 
And  the  crosses  topple  o'er 

Nameless  graves  long  lost  in  sleep; 

And  the  trees,  at  evening  mild. 

Scatter  leaves  upon  them  all, 
As  a  tired,  sleep-worn  child 

Softly  lets  its  loved  toys  fall 

Here  is  all  my  earthly  pain 

As  a  mist-cloud  swept  away; 
Here  sweet  Death  in  slumbrous  chain 

Holds  the  soul  beneath  its  sway. 

Jane  Barry,  ^8i, 


A  Flower  in  a  Letter, 


A   FLOWER   IN   A   LETTER. 

Strange  that  this  poor  shriveled  thing 

Came  from  all  that  wealth  of  spring — 

From  her  garden  loud  with  bees, 

Pink  and  purple  with  sweet-peas ! 

That  from  all  that  warmth  and  brightness, 

Red  of  rose  and  lilies'  whiteness, 

This  was  sent,  a  very  part 

Of  the  garden's  fragrant  heart — 

Wan  and  lifeless  though  it  be 

Ere  this  letter  reaches  me ! 

Ah,  my  friends !  these  songs  I  write — 
Could  you  know  from  out  what  light, 
Warmth  of  love  and  wishes  glowing, 
All  a  wild  heart's  eager  growing, 
I  have  tried  to  send  a  part, 
Bright  with  love,  from  heart  to  heart ! 
Long  the  way:  my  blossoms,  too, 
Wan  and  lifeless  come  to  you, 

Milicent  Washburn  Shmn,  '/p. 

fuSIVBRSITT] 


*^v^i 


